


own me, i'll let you play the role (i'll be your animal)

by voxofthevoid



Series: in this story, you have claws [3]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Breeding, Established Relationship, Interspecies Sex, Knotting, M/M, Monsterfuckers Inc, Overstimulation, Prayer Circle for Bucky's Asshole, Rimming, Rough Sex, Sex with Shifted Werewolf, Size Difference, Werewolf Steve Rogers, Wet & Messy, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:02:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23178904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voxofthevoid/pseuds/voxofthevoid
Summary: He wanders into a clearing, the same one where he stood, almost three months ago, watching the Quinjet while waiting for Steve to come running to him. It was the start of something…educational. It’s one thing to take Steve as he is, another to love it the way Bucky did. He has no regrets. He’s been worse things than a monster-fucker.The internet has words for everything. He likes that.He makes it unmolested to the edge of the clearing. The moon is full and bright overhead, thin clouds drifting across half of her. Bucky stares, mesmerized, and finds that he can’t look away. He was never one to be entranced by the night sky. He was a city boy at first, and then the war sucked him dry, the only good things in Bucky’s head the memory of the blue-eyed boy he left behind.They took that too, in the end.He has it back, and he has the moon to thank for it, in the strangest ways. Maybe that’s why he can’t look away. It feels silly to murmur gratitude at what’s essentially a sphere of rock glowing with borrowed light. Bucky does it anyway.Twigs snap behind him. A deep growl makes the air tremble.-Bucky’s not wearing red, but he’s got a big, bad wolf on his tail.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: in this story, you have claws [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1414789
Comments: 107
Kudos: 850





	own me, i'll let you play the role (i'll be your animal)

**Author's Note:**

> a.k.a the one where Bucky demonstrates the lengths humans will go to for a good, freaky fuck. Also, the story jumps right into the freaky fucking so imagine the consent negotiation of werewolf sex as something akin to pre-negotiated/consensual somnophilia. 
> 
> Speaking of freaky fucking, I generally tend to write non-human characters as being distinctly alien in biology and behaviour, so it ain’t just the sex that’s gonna be weird.

_Come to the woods_ , says the big bad wolf. _I’ll find you._

-

Bucky rarely ventures out into the forest at night. It isn’t fear that has kept him away; he spent far too long being a boogeyman to be wary of things that went bump in the night. He wasn’t scared of the forest, but he didn’t like the way it crept under his skin.

He doesn’t mind so much now that he knows why it happens. But there’s no need to go walking into the cold night when he’s got a lover at home who’s warm and safe. And on nights when said lover isn’t home—well, Bucky’s been explicitly told not to brave the woods on those nights.

But he’s here now, moss and leaves crunching under his boots as he tries to catch a glimpse of the full moon through the canopy. It pulls at him even now, a call muted by the serum in his blood. There’s room for only one monster in a body, but he’s not immune to the moon’s silver song or the howls that rend the air. It’s odd that they’re easier to handle when he’s outside, wading through the forest in search of his kin. He used to try and drown them out with music, with his own thoughts, but then Steve came, and Bucky could settle into the old pattern of worrying after his reckless ass, regardless of whether Steve needed that anymore.

It's freeing, almost, to just walk into that dangerous siren call and let the forest swallow him. Bucky doesn’t know whether it’s the night or the moon or his own head that has turned the forest into a live entity, but the effect is stunning all the same. The air pulses with life, and Bucky feels like he’s inhaling magic.

Probably his head, that.

A twig breaks, somewhere close. Bucky’s hands fall instinctively to his belt before he forces himself to relax. His fingers trail over the sheath of his knife and the muzzle of his gun.

He didn’t want to bring the weapons. Steve insisted though, and Bucky’s thankful now for their comforting presence as he wanders aimlessly, the paths that he’s walked a thousand times made alien by the night. But it’s not just the moon that’s keeping him company tonight.

He’s not alone in this forest. Something’s stalking him.

Several somethings.

Steve warned him about that. Bucky keeps a hand on his knife, ready to wield it at a moment’s notice, but it’s not fear that makes his heart race and palms sweat. Fear would have done none of these things; Hydra taught him early on to clamp down on terror, erase it from his mind and his body, to react with nothing but perfect calm and controlled violence. The sole exception was the chair. That, he was encouraged to fear.

He swallows, pushing the memories down. They have no place here.

And Steve will never let him live it down if Bucky winds up too distracted to play the game well.

He wanders into a clearing, the same one where he stood, almost three months ago, watching the Quinjet while waiting for Steve to come running to him. It was the start of something…educational. It’s one thing to take Steve as he is, another to love it the way Bucky did. He has no regrets. He’s been worse things than a monster-fucker.

That’s a recent addition to his vocabulary. The internet has words for everything. He likes that.

He makes it unmolested to the edge of the clearing. The moon is full and bright overhead, wispy clouds casting odd shadows on her ethereal glow. Bucky stares, mesmerized, and finds that he can’t look away. He wasn’t always the sort to be entranced by the night sky. He was a city boy at first, and when the war sucked him dry, the only good things left in his head were memories of the blue-eyed boy he left behind.

They took that too, in the end.

He has it back, and he has the moon to thank for it, in the strangest ways. Maybe that’s why he can’t look away.

It feels silly to murmur gratitude at what’s essentially a sphere of rock glowing with borrowed light. Bucky does it anyway.

Twigs snap behind him. A deep growl makes the air tremble.

Bucky doesn’t turn around. He slides his hands over his weapons. He drops the knife to the ground. He keeps the gun in his hand when he turns around.

He doesn’t scream. His gasp is a soft, smothered thing.

Steve tried to prepare him for it. He described it, the size and the shape and the smell, and he scoured the internet for semi-authentic accounts, and he drew pictures, not of himself but of others he saw, because of course Steve never saw his own full form. Werewolves have no use for a mirror. The human does. The wolf might tolerate it.

But this hulking beast belongs to another world entirely.

The hybrid is easily as tall as Steve in his human form, which would be alarming enough on its own. But the creature is _crouching_. It’s wrong, all of it; its fur is darker than Steve’s shade of gleaming gold, its arms are too long, legs too bent—a beast of power and eerie proportions.

The eyes though—the eyes are the same. Even set above a snout that’s distinctly different from a wolf’s yet is nothing that belongs on a human face, Bucky knows those eyes.

“Steve?” he calls.

He takes a tentative step forward. Steve growls.

Bucky stills.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “Not moving.”

 _No sudden movements_ , Steve said. _Body language is important_.

Bucky bends down, slow, so slow that the hairs on his arms rise in anticipation, and sets the gun on the ground. He stands just as slowly. He doesn’t think he’s imagining how Steve’s snarl mellows some as he eyes Bucky’s empty, open hands.

“It’s me,” Bucky says. “I’m here for you. Remember, Stevie?”

He’s trying to sweettalk a monster. The thought bounces around his head, a part of Bucky incredulous even now. That part wants him to run. Bucky tells it go fuck itself. Steve’s not the only monster in this clearing.

Steve takes a step forward. He’s not growling, but his lips are pulled back from his teeth, and Bucky stares breathlessly at his vicious-looking fangs. Never mind ripping out his throat—those could tear his head clean off.

It takes every ounce of self-possession he has to not back away with every step Steve takes.

Finally, he’s close enough that his breaths fall hot on Bucky’s face, disturbing the thinner strands of his hair. Steve makes a quiet, rumbling sound. Bucky doesn’t dare breathe.

The nose that’s shoved under his chin is cold, _wet_.

Bucky bares his throat.

Every survival instinct he possesses screams bloody murder. Bucky ignores it entirely, standing there with his throat exposed, barely breathing. Steve drags his snout down Bucky’s neck, shoving it none too gently against where his pulse flutters under thin skin. Steve’s snuffling breaths are not unlike those he takes in his wolf body. But they’re hotter, more forceful too, threatening to shove Bucky back a step. He digs his heels in and tries not to tremble.

It's still not fear. Bucky might be broken, but if he is, then Steve’s the one who broke him, so it’s fine.

Steve backs away suddenly. Bucky has just enough time to register the new distance between their bodies when Steve rears up to his full height.

The motherfucker is _eight feet tall_.

He throws his head back and howls.

Bucky’s knees hit the ground.

There’s a moment where Steve’s is the only noise in the world.

Then, other howls answer him from all around the forest, closer than they should be. Bucky looks frantically around the clearing, but it’s empty save for the two of them. He thinks he can see shapes move in the trees, in the shadows where the moonlight doesn’t touch. He catches a glimpse of white, eyes or teeth he doesn’t know, but it’s gone in a flash.

Bucky’s blood is rushing in his ears, but it doesn’t drown out the howling. Nothing can. Nothing will.

Steve’s triumphant, he knows somehow. He’s happy.

Bucky’s the cause, and that he knows with a simple certainty whose source is kinder than a howl that rends the night.

 _It won’t be like the wolf_ , Steve warned him. _It’s not me—this me—in another body. But I’ll know you._

 _How?_ Bucky asked because he didn’t have the heart to ask why.

 _You’re mine_ , Steve said, smiling with too much teeth. _A wolf knows its mate._

The other wolves cease howling long before Steve does. Bucky stays there on his knees, staring up at this creature that’s straight out of a nightmare, and feels his blood burn in his veins.

He came prepared for this, but he has the gun in case he changes his mind; Steve would understand if Bucky shot him and hightailed it back to the cabin, would grin at Bucky in the morning and kiss away his apology saying there’s nothing to forgive, but it would kill Bucky to pull the trigger on Steve, and he’s suddenly, vehemently glad that he won’t have to.

He might still have to, he admits to himself, taking in Steve in his full glory. Steve’s all instinct in this form, primal wants unleashed. Food, fight, fuck. Bucky’s not food, and he’s on his knees with his head tipped back so he’s not a fight either, not that there was any question from the moment Steve took a whiff of him.

Bucky’s his. He’ll know that in any form.

It still catches him off guard when Steve suddenly lunges at him. He scrambles back, a shout escaping his lips, but there’s no escape even if he wanted it, and in a blur of sound and movement, Bucky’s flat on his back with Steve looming over him.

He makes Bucky feel tiny.

“Steve,” he calls, voice shakier that he’d like. “I—”

He doesn’t know how to finish that. He can’t think, all of him narrowed to the blazing blue of Steve’s eyes and the gleam of his very sharp teeth as his snout draws closer to Bucky’s face, his _throat_. Trust is one thing, fear is another, but it’s simple fact that Steve can end Bucky with one snap of those powerful jaws, and Jesus fucking Christ, that shouldn’t make him swell between his legs.

Steve’s wet nose finds his pulse again, taking deep drags that seem to shudder through his gigantic body. Goosebumps break out across Bucky’s arms and bare chest when Steve drags his nose up the column of his neck.

The tongue shouldn’t come as a surprise, but it does.

 _Wet_ is Bucky’s first, stunned impression. _Hot_ follows on its heels. He tries to wrap his head around the fact that he’s got werewolf saliva dripping down the side of his face; Steve has licked him when he was in wolf form, but this—it’s different in a way Bucky can’t grasp let alone put into words. It kicks his heart into double-time, leaves him heaving for air that seems to evaporate before it reaches his lungs.

Steve wreaks holy havoc on Bucky’s body and mind, sniffing down Bucky’s body, jaw open to expose more sharp teeth and a long, pink tongue that makes Bucky’s brain frizzle out.

Bucky yelps when a disinterested perusal of his torso gives way, with little warning, to a rough, forceful inspection of what’s between his legs. Bucky tries to close them on instinct, but a low, warning growl freezes him in place. He watches, dazed, as Steve takes deep, heaving sniffs of his thighs and–

And Christ, Bucky knows full well what he’s scenting, knows why his cock’s filling further in answer to that damp, demanding pressure.

He doesn’t whimper, doesn’t beg, but it’s not easy. Steve likes to tease him for being easy, and it’s true, but Bucky would never have thought he’s this easy. Perverted, yes, because you couldn’t want your guy to fuck you in werewolf form and not be a little—a lot—perverted, but the intensity of his reaction to Steve’s monstrous body and animal behavior isn’t something he expected.

Where shame might have existed once, he now has heat spreading over his face and pooling in his gut.

Steve backs up once he’s had his fill of sniffing Bucky’s crotch. Bucky can’t read this face like he can read Steve in his other forms, but he thinks he detects pleasure in those narrowed eyes and open, panting mouth.

And then–

 _Right to business_ , Bucky thinks half-hysterically when Steve nudges his hips with his snout. He’s strong enough to just flip Bucky over but kind enough not to use his clawed hands to do it, so Bucky scrambles to move, turning over to all fours on limbs that feel like they’ll collapse under him any second. It’s a strange luxury, that weakness. Steve’s the only one who can pull it out of him, but even he hasn’t managed this level of terror-tinged anticipation since the incident at Avengers Tower.

Bucky fucking loves it.

Steve shoves his nose into Bucky’s ass and growls deep in his throat when he meets thick fabric. Bucky doesn’t know why this is different when Steve seemed just fine with his groin, but then Steve’s growl ratchets up a notch, and Bucky’s mind kind of blanks.

The sound trembles through his veins, tearing into every animal instinct. He wants to go belly up and bare his teeth. He wants to spread his legs and beg.

He does nothing, just stays as he is with his head hung, blankly watching metal fingers sink deep into the grass. He doesn’t flinch when sharp claws tug at his waistband—and consequently at the fragile skin above the cloth—but that’s only because he’s too stunned to twitch a muscle.

Steve rips the pants in a single, yanking motion.

Paper-thin cuts bloom on Bucky’s ass and thighs, and he doesn’t know whether to be impressed that Steve didn’t carve open the flesh or terrified at how easily he can tear Bucky to shreds.

But then, with Steve, Bucky seems to create a third option—be aroused on account of _both_.

If he had a therapist, he’d probably make them cry with these…revelations.

Cool air hits his ass and thighs, his calves and feet still insulated since Steve only tore enough to get what he wanted. He doesn’t mind the cold, not this pleasant chill. He’s running hot anyway, hands clammy and heart pounding in anticipation of what Steve will do now that he’s got Bucky where he wants him.

That cold nose sniffs at the crease of Bucky’s thighs, where the scent of him would he rich and heavy. Steve told him that. Steve does it too, but he’s subtle about it, covering it with foreplay, and when he’s too far gone to bother with that, he just goes straight for Bucky’s ass.

The full moon seems to have stripped Steve of both that sense of urgency and his delicate sensibilities.

Bucky’s dick hangs heavy between his legs, his balls are full and tight, and he aches in want as Steve takes his sweet time inspecting the goods. It’s just plain odd to have him nuzzle those, and Bucky _does_ _not_ think about the sharp, tearing teeth so close to parts that will hurt like a bitch to lose. The serum didn’t make his arm grow back, but the toe he lost on a mission in Calcutta did, and Christ, he doesn’t want to find out if regrowing genitals will strain the serum’s capacity for regeneration.

His cock flags a bit, but then Steve licks a wet stripe from his balls to his crack, and it hardens so fast that Bucky lets out a shocked little moan.

Steve shoves his nose between his cheeks, and Bucky’s heart is in his throat, and he knows, this time, why Steve’s growl is low and dark and angry.

“I’ll get it out,” Bucky gasps, letting his left arm hold his weight as he lifts the other, reaching tentatively back.

Steve growls again but the sound of snapping jaws don’t follow, and it’s not even that Bucky really thinks Steve will take a bite out of him, just that lust and trust are all tangled with instincts older than himself, and it’s hard to rein in his thoughts when Steve’s very presence sends his heart into high gear.

Bucky’s fingers close around the plug. He holds his breath when he pulls it out, screwing his eyes shut when his walls clench and cling to the metal, trying to keep it in. It was Steve’s choice, and it’s big, big enough that only the ambient energy of the forest and the eyes on him kept Bucky from jolting with every step he took or slumping against a tree to rub out a quick one.

He cries out when his hole’s forced tight around the widest part, and when he’s finally empty, he’s as hollow as he’s relieved. His hole flutters around the sudden, aching emptiness, but Steve doesn’t give him much time to wallow.

The plug drops from Bucky’s hand and he barely gets it under him in time to brace himself; Steve’s tongue was hot on his skin, but it feels hotter there, and it’s in his head, Bucky knows that, but he still shudders violently when Steve laps at his hole. He’s used to feeling Steve’s human mouth there, but this is different and not just in the obvious way. Steve’s tongue is different, his saliva feels different, and it’s so fucking wet, so messy, spit soaking his hole, his crack, trickling down to run maddeningly down his balls. Some splatters on his thighs, and it’s _filthy_ , all of it, and Bucky’s filthy too, for loving it, for his quickening breaths and clenching gut and the needy noises he can’t quite keep in.

Steve’s tongue slides _in_ , and Bucky’s arms nearly buckle.

It’s not the clever, calculated twists of tongue that Steve prefers when he’s not in a frenzy to fuck. This is just Steve exploring, nose and tongue pushing everywhere, into everything, like Bucky’s fine fucking cuisine to sample. But Steve doesn’t need technique to drive Bucky to madness, never did, and sure doesn’t now, when his tongue’s like fire inside Bucky, sliding deeper than a human tongue can, the angle different, everything sloppy and wet.

“Steve,” he keens, ripping up fistfuls of grass and dirt. “Oh god, oh— _oh_ , fuck.”

Steve, human Steve, might have stopped to tease, might have redoubled his efforts to hear Bucky make more noise, but this one—this creature who has Steve’s eyes but an entirely alien intelligence peering out from behind them—just keeps as he is, tongue sliding deep, more to taste Bucky than to bring him pleasure. But there’s no escaping the pleasure all the same, and Bucky doesn’t even realize he’s moving too, shoving his ass back against Steve’s tongue, until a low growl trembles against his skin and clawed, inhuman hands grip his hips.

Bucky stills, breath whistling through clenched teeth.

Steve doesn’t break his skin this time, just keeps Bucky where he wants him, still and subdued for the tender mercies of his mouth. Even that makes Bucky’s dick throb, leaking precome steadily, and Bucky knows he can come like this, Steve has _made_ him come like this, wound tight and wrung dry by nothing but the slick heat of a tongue.

But before he can get anywhere close to the edge, Steve stops.

Bucky whines, soft and wounded, but he knows better than to chase Steve with his body. He stays still, head down and ass up, begging with just his posture.

His reward is Steve’s great, hulking body settling over his. Its weight doesn’t touch Bucky, but the heat alone is overwhelming. The serum makes Bucky run hot and Steve’s much the same thanks to his nature, but this is a different kind of body heat. It reminds Bucky of animals he’s touched, strays in Brooklyn and large, friendly dogs in shelters that allowed petting sessions. They had a peculiar warmth to them, strangely comforting.

This is like that, but the warmth is heat and instead of comfort, there are ragged hooks tugging at Bucky’s gut.

Steve’s clawed arms are on either side of Bucky, a solid foot of distance between them and Bucky’s hands. He can’t help looking, and he doesn’t know whether to bless or curse the moon for gleaming so bright. If it were darker, even Bucky’s serum-enhanced sight wouldn’t pick up the distinctly monstrous way Steve’s limbs are structured. The joints are neither human nor animal, and the fur covering them isn’t as thick as a wolf pelt but leaves no patch of skin visible. He thinks, helplessly, of what little he saw of Steve’s upper half—the sharp curve of his spine when he crouched and the too-long torso when he stood tall and howled.

Bucky wondered, now and then, why Hydra was so hellbent on killing Steve that they sent the Winter Soldier to do it. Steve, to him, was little more than an oversized wolf. Strong, yes. Dangerous, certainly. But there was plenty of danger that Hydra was content to ignore.

Now, he imagines Steve’s moon-kissed might turned against Hydra’s many heads and understands why Pierce was afraid.

Then, as if heeding some unspoken cue, Steve stops hovering and—

He’s _huge_.

Steve’s never been easy to take, and Bucky has always loved the challenge, the stretch, but the cock sliding along the sweaty expanse of his back feels like it would tear him literally in half. He didn’t pause to look at Steve’s dick earlier, too caught up in the shape and size of him, but he’s regretting that now. What kind of an idiot goes out to get fucked by a werewolf and doesn’t take the time to notice his cock?

Steve continues to rub it on Bucky’s back, catching Bucky between his cheek every other thrust.

It feels—it’s different. Warmer. Longer. The girth all wrong.

And wet, everything about tonight’s _wet_ , and Bucky doesn’t even have an excuse for how the thick slickness of precome on his skin makes him tighten all over.

Steve’s taking his time, moving slow and undaunted, smearing his fluids on Bucky’s skin like he’s marking territory. He is, probably. Steve was a possessive son of a bitch, god rest poor Sarah’s soul, back before werewolves were even in the picture. Bucky has many fond memories of buttoning his collar as high as he could in summer to hide the marks. People still saw and assumed; Bucky lied and went home to tell Steve about the lies, and he inevitably went to bed with more bruises than he started the day with, and so on and so forth, a pleasantly vicious cycle.

Steve, now, has odd ideas about den and pack and mate, and they’ve never talked about it much, Bucky accepting these quirks with the same ease with which Steve accepted his deathly metal limb and the occasional screaming nightmare, but Bucky’s always known in some distant part of him that to Steve, Bucky was all of those rolled into one, pretty package.

It's one thing to know, another to feel it dripping heat on his skin. Steve’s not even growling; his breaths are loud because of his size and his presence is undeniable, but he’s staking his claim as gently as he can, and Bucky lets himself breathe slower, deeper, forcing his muscles to let go of tension. Not many can feel safe with a monster bracketing their body, but Bucky’s not most men and this isn’t just some monster—it’s Bucky’s monster.

He's glad for the careful looseness of his body when Steve stops rutting against his back and starts to work his hips with unmistakable intent.

It slides between Bucky’s cheeks, the passage made wet and easy by generous helpings of spit and precome. The tip is blood-hot where it catches against the rim, threatening for a breathless moment to push right in. But it doesn’t, tugging at the rim before it slides up Bucky’s crack, and it takes every ounce of control Bucky has to regulate his breathing and not clench up. He can take it, he told Steve he can take it, and he’s going to if it kills him.

 _It might_ , comes the dazed thought when the head prods his rim again, wet and hot and fucking huge. Bucky remembers the first time Steve knotted him, remembers wondering if he’d die of werewolf dick. He remembers thinking it would be worth it.

He clings to that when Steve starts to push in with a loud, rumbling noise that makes the hairs on Bucky’s nape stand on end.

Fear’s the instinctive response, but it flares once and dies just as swiftly, replaced by a maelstrom of sensation that Bucky can’t even begin to untangle with every one of his senses screaming at him.

Steve’s big, so big, and Bucky’s open from the plug and wet from his tongue and the serum’s made him capable of taking a lot, but he’s nominally human, his _body_ is human, and it writhes and shakes and tries to crawl free of that monstrous intrusion.

One great, clawed hand lands on his back, between his shoulder blades, and shoves down. White bursts under Bucky’s lids, the whole of him shuddering as his arms give out without a whisper of a protest. Bucky turns his head to avoid a broken nose and a mouthful of grass, and he hits the ground with a whimper. The grass is damp, and his belly’s wet, and the hand Steve’s not using to pin him to the ground is there, mere inches from his face. There are claws digging into the grass, but the ones on Bucky’s back barely break skin.

That can change, he knows. Steve flexes them as if to tell him the same.

Bucky swallows around an achingly dry throat. He hears—and feels—Steve still and take a deep, dragging breath. The following rumble has a distinctly pleased quality to it, or maybe Bucky’s imagining that, but wolf or human or in-between, Steve’s Steve and Bucky knows him, doesn’t he? The reason for Steve’s sudden pleasure is trapped between Bucky’s body and the ground. His cock’s still half-hard, but it’s the telltale stickiness of come on his skin that makes Bucky’s face heat. He can’t say why he’s embarrassed. It’s not the first time he’s shot off at a harsh thrust or sharp bite, but all those times, Steve has human.

But it’s different, all of this is different. Steve’s not even really in him yet, and knowing that Steve can smell his release makes Bucky want to crawl into some deep, dark crevice.

He whines instead because Steve’s not letting him go anywhere any time soon. He’s got Bucky right where he wants him, pinned and prone and at his mercy.

Steve stops sniffing the air. Bucky holds his breath. 

Steve’s a considerate lover when he wants to be and when he needs to be, when Bucky’s not egging him on to wreck him. There’s nothing of that here, in the cock carving him open, not with the slow, steady slide Steve usually prefers but with short, furious thrusts that catch at his rim and force it wide, letting Steve fuck in deep, sliding a burning half-inch before withdrawing, leaving Bucky keening around the sudden emptiness and the promise of more. And there is _more_ , faster and harder he can take. It’s all thick, relentless heat, and Bucky claws at the ground and howls Steve’s name, but he’s still pinned, still fucked, and there’s a gun a few feet away, the distance not so great that Bucky can’t reach it if he tries, but he won’t, he doesn’t even want to because he's screaming and whining nonsense but his blood is warm with want and he’s as hungry as he’s terrified, aching for Steve to bury every, pulsing inch of him inside Bucky.

And he does.

It takes so long that Bucky burns, lungs aching, skin heated, ass on _fire_ , and he think he bleeds or maybe it’s just Steve’s precome slicking his insides, and he doesn’t care, it doesn’t matter, he just wants Steve inside, all of him—wants him to stop tearing Bucky open with rough, rabbity thrusts, wants his body to stop proving that the limit he thought he hit isn’t a limit at all.

When Steve finally bottoms out, Bucky’s glad he’s not on all fours anymore. It’s strange; Steve’s hips don’t slot neatly against his, slick flesh meeting flesh. His half-lupine body is built differently, so there’s just something distinctly furry pressed to his ass, and Bucky doesn’t know why that’s so shocking when this whole night’s been a barrage of alien sensation. At least the balls slapping his thighs are familiar enough.

Steve’s silent above him. The high-pitched keening filling the air is all Bucky.

He swallows it down and bites through his lip keeping quiet when Steve shifts, a minute movement that Bucky wouldn’t have noticed if not for how it makes Steve’s cock tug at his sore, abused hole.

Steve growls. It’s a soft sound, as soft as a werewolf growling can be.

Spots dance in Bucky’s vision when Steve’s cock slides out of him, dragging hot against his walls, pressed up so tight against them, filling him so entirely that it burns like Steve’s dick has sunk hooks in the flesh and is ripping it all out on the exit.

He doesn’t know whether Steve pulls out even halfway. It’s all he can do to breathe. He doesn’t feel any less empty, any less strained. He thinks, hazily, of rubber bands stretched to the limit—of worn, battered elastic. He feels an odd kinship, but Christ, he could go like this and thank Steve for it.

Something wet and warm slithers against his nape, his shoulder. And again, on the side of his neck, his ear. It takes a whole minute of barely breathing while wet saliva drips down his skin for Bucky to realize that Steve is licking him.

“Oh,” he breathes, eyes fluttering shut in mingled relief and surprise.

It’s gross, no way around that, but he had that tongue in his asshole and moaned like a whore for it, so he can endure these attempts at—comfort, he’s pretty sure. Steve pauses now and then to sniffle at Bucky’s cheek before resuming his slobbery attentions.

And it helps. That’s the strangest part. It helps.

Bucky relaxes, bit by bit, around the cock spearing him. Steve’s hand on his back starts to feel less like restraint and more like—well, more like his hands wrapped tight around Bucky’s wrists, keeping them above his head while Steve fucks him through the mattress, which is still restraint, technically, but Bucky has long since made a special place for it in his mind, labelled ‘Steve.’

“You’re still just an oversized puppy, aren’t you?” he murmurs.

Steve’s next sniff has a hint of teeth to it. He drives his cock deep into Bucky, reclaiming those scant inches he sacrificed to lick Bucky better.

When the stars fade from his vision, Bucky concludes that altered state of mind or not, Steve understands him just fine. Then, Steve takes his hand off Bucky’s back, and Bucky feels rather than sees it brace on the earth beside his head, and that’s all the warning he gets before Steve starts to _move_.

This time, Bucky’s the one who howls.

It shudders through him, every thrust, and it’s fire and lightning bursting in his body, sheer, damning sensation setting teeth to the soft, delicate parts of him and tearing. Each feverish drag of Steve’s cock along his walls makes Bucky see white, but it’s the power behind his pounding thrusts that rocks his body like a ragdoll. It’s too much to process, too sharp to be pleasure or pain; it just _is_ , and Bucky’s caught in it, drowning in it, each trembling shred of him reduced to the burn of Steve’s cock carving open a home inside Bucky.

He's begging, he realizes in one suspended moment when the syllables penetrate the rush of blood in his ears. Pleas spill from his lips, scattered sounds forced past a throat that wants to scream and scream and never stop, and it’s not pain, Bucky wouldn’t make a sound if it were pain; this is his body pried open in ways it was never meant to and _taken_ , again and again, Steve carving his mark into the most intimate parts of him. 

He’s screams Steve’s name and gets a thrust that makes him choke on air, cock ramming deep at an angle that whites out Bucky’s mind.

And his own cock’s hard through it all, caught between the sweaty, overheated flesh of his stomach and the damp, uncomfortable grass. The friction is the strangest he’s felt, and every time Steve fucks in, every time his monster of a cock presses in on Bucky’s prostate, it feels like someone’s sliding a finger in through the base of Bucky’s cock. 

It's overwhelming, and Bucky’s so much dead weight hanging off Steve’s cock, and fuck, that image’s— _fuck_.

It only takes another thrust; the whole insane length of Steve slides out until it’s just the pulsing heat of the head keeping him open, and then he slams in, filling Bucky in one, searing stroke, and he comes, sudden and explosive, a broken cry tearing past his throat as he convulses around Steve, under him. It consumes him, harsh and electric, _intense_ , like a storm in his gut. It leaves Bucky weak and wretched, whimpering as he blinks the spots out his vision.

Steve doesn’t stop.

He just keeps fucking, and he growls when Bucky’s muscles clench and ripple around his cock, but it’s low, triumphant, and he only speeds up, chasing his pleasure in Bucky’s limp, shaking body. It forces a few weak spurts out of come, spent cock twitching painfully, and the edged afterglow of his orgasm is quick to lose the glow, leaving behind only sharp edges that rip and tear.

“Ste-Steve, _Steve_ , please, Steve,” Bucky gasps, but he doesn’t what know what he’s begging for, and if Steve hears the broken pleas, he doesn’t react, moving only to slam into Bucky like he wants to split him wide.

It’s wholly selfish; Steve’s chasing an end, and Bucky just there, a tight hole, and it shouldn’t be so hot, shouldn’t make him burn in places deeper than his gut. The helpless rocking of his body on Steve’s monster cock shouldn’t make the edges of Bucky’s mind go hazy and quiet, his body limp and passive to match. It shouldn’t, but it does, and Bucky doesn’t have to think or say Steve’s name or beg more mercy, he just has to be there, a warm body with a wet hole, there for Steve to lick and fuck and _knot_.

It threatens to break him, the first furious thrust that tries and fails to force the growing bulge at the base past Bucky’s swollen, fluttering rim. Bucky finds his voice long enough to scream, stretched to breaking and _forced wider_ , but he’s drowned out by Steve’s growl, the sound reverberating in Bucky’s bones.

The next stroke pushes it inside, Bucky breaking open to take it.

And Steve grows and grows, and Bucky doesn’t scream, just lies there and keens, softly, weakly, panting and half-aware. All he can feel is the fever-hot bulge of Steve’s knot prying him wide and plugging him tight, and his ass feels like one big bruise, throbbing in time with his pounding pulse. His hole’s sore, aching with a sharper sting, and Bucky’s back muscles are a dull counterpoint to the harsher pains. But drowning it all out is a pleasure he can’t grasp, a full, flowing thing, creeping through every vein and clenching in every cell, consuming him.

Steve fills him with fire, and Bucky doesn’t know, doesn’t care, if his come is hotter than it is in human form or if it’s Bucky’s fuck-drunk mind playing tricks on him.

He moans weakly when it seeps into every inch of space not taken up by Steve’s cock. That’s not much. He’s full to bursting. Steve comes and comes, all of it kept inside by his swollen knot. Bucky wants to cradle his belly but damned if he can move.

Steve howls again.

His wolves answer him.

Bucky’s blood rushes to his head while his body clenches helplessly around Steve’s knot. All of him is aching, stinging. He’s soaked in sweat and simmering with uncomfortable heat. His stomach will start to hurt, soon, even as Steve tries fruitlessly to—to _breed_ him, pump him full of come and plug him up to make it catch in a womb Bucky doesn’t possess.

 _I’ll be all instinct and you’re my mate_ , Steve said in what feels like weeks go rather than mere days. _It’ll get real weird, Buck._

Steve was right. It’s real weird.

It's the best sex Bucky’s ever had.

He loses track of how long he stays like that, hanging off Steve’s knot with a belly full of come. Steve nuzzles him now and then, chest rumbling in what Bucky interprets as pleasure. Bucky finds himself strangely appreciative of the warm, wet laps Steve’s tongue make over his cheek. It’s safe. He’s safe.

Bucky’s not quite aware of Steve’s knot deflating, but he jolts to life when warm come runs down his thighs, a filthy relief. He jolts for a whole other reason when Steve starts lapping up the mess he made.

He comes for a third time like that, shuddering with every lazy swipe of Steve’s tongue over his thighs, his cheeks, his hole. He sobs weakly through it, Steve’s name a prayer on his lips, and he half-expects Steve to fuck him again, to push him past all limit and ruin him—and it’s terrifying, knowing Bucky would let him, would let Steve take and take and take until there’s nothing left, and it’s more terrifying still that Bucky would trust Steve to reach into the shattered pieces left and put him together again, cracked but whole.

But Steve just pushes his wet nose for one last time against Bucky’s gaping, sloppy-loose hole, pulling back with a strong puff of breath.

The arm in Bucky’s line of vision vanishes, just as the heat hovering over him does. Bucky lets himself collapse. When Steve’s snout pokes at his side, Bucky manages laboriously to turn over. He plans to flop on his back, but he curls up instead, finding an eerie comfort in the fetal position.

Steve curls around him.

Bucky makes a faint noise, surprised and questioning, but Steve just settles more firmly around him. It’s a strange blend between human Steve’s all-encompassing hugs and wolf Steve’s insistent cuddling. Bucky stops aggressively pillbugging, gritting his teeth against the various aches of his body. He’s not surprised so much as awed when Steve shifts to better hold Bucky.

Wetness gathers in his eyes, and Bucky blinks them away. He reaches for Steve with a hesitant hand, and when there’s no reaction except for Steve’s blazing eyes watching him intently, Bucky sinks his fingers into the fur at Steve’s chest.

It’s softer than it looks. Bucky clutches tighter. Steve allows it with an expression Bucky can’t place on a distorted snout but still deems amusement.

He’s too tired to feel Steve up. He settles more comfortably against Steve’s much, much bigger body, and let those furred arms sweep him into their warm hold.

And it doesn’t matter that they’re out in a forest, lying in a clearing surrounded by wild wolves; Steve’s got him. Bucky’s safe.

He closes his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think <3


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